


31 Days of Fanfic

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Beer, Beer Run, Belly Rubs, Body Hair, Crushes, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub, Driving, F/F, F/M, Family, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Marriage, Oral Sex, Protective Siblings, Relationship Advice, Rimming, Secret Relationship, Sexual Tension, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-10 09:51:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11689173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: (rating and warnings subject to change as I add chapters)A Tumblr post challenged authors to produce 1 fanfic for every day of August, 2017.  While I can't post every day, I can write 31 fics and post them when I can.  Challenge accepted.Update: OKAY SO MAYBE I GOT A BIT GREEDY.  But I am finishing this challenge, even if it takes me a few months.





	1. Shameless Fluff - TF2 - Heavy/Medic

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for each day is listed as the chapter title, as is the fandom and ship, for ease of use, as this is a multifandom challenge.
> 
> Also while I'll be posting these in chunks each chapter will be listed as the date of the prompt.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fluffy Tum"
> 
> Heavy and Medic enjoy the only air-conditioned room on base. And one another's company. And Heavy's fuzzy, snuggly belly.

The dry heat of New Mexico afforded luxuries that other warm climates frequently denied. Humidity was anathema to skin-to-skin contact, and while the sun-baked mercenaries were no stranger to sweat and grit, there was something to be said for quietly lounging in a darkened room, the burning star gone from the sky to be replaced by the placidly neutral moon and its entourage of millions of glistening stars in the blackness of the void. The cold of the night was held at bay by the heat burned into the walls of the base, while that heat all the same began to escape through the cracks and open windows, finally offering respite provided largely only by oversized box fans during the day. RED was not the type of company to spring for central air. Or even window-unit air conditioning.

The only room cooled by the company was the infirmary, for obvious reasons. And so it was there that Medic and Heavy had set up a cot behind some privacy screens, a place to relax together, where they could enjoy the cooing of doves and the closeness of a good cuddle without sticking to one another from sweat.

Heavy reclined, his shirt hiked up, his hairy belly providing a comfortable pillow for Medic as he lay between the giant's legs, reading a tawdry romance novel featuring a beautiful raven-haired woman being carried bridal-style by a muscular, handsome young man on the cover.

Large, calloused hands idly pet at the doctor's shoulders and head, Heavy's fingers carding through his hair, mussing up the smaller main's hairstyle. Medic had long since given up on keeping himself presentable that day, so he simply craned into the touch, enjoying the gentle scratching at his scalp.

“Doktor is bad at relaxing,” Heavy mused, his voice a warm rumble under the doctor's head.

“Ja? Why is that?” Medic replied.

“You lay here with head on belly, but nose in book. Is no good.”

“But you love books, mein bär.”

“I do,” Heavy said, leaving the air pregnant with meaning for a long moment before continuing. “But not when things are more important.”

Medic chuckled softly at that, laying his book flat on his chest. “What is so important that I am relaxing incorrectly?”

“This fuzzy tum,” Heavy said with purpose, laying one massive hand on his own belly and patting it softly. “You should have nose in this.”

A laugh forced its way out of Medic, and he closed the book and dropped it to floor. With an almost monumental effort considering how comfortable he had become, Medic hefted himself over, rolling in place so that he was facing Heavy's belly. A flurry of gentle kisses assailed the giant's hairy skin, and after a long moment, Medic face-planted into the softness of Heavy's belly. He giggled a little, and nosed in, enjoying the texture of his fluffy hair against his nose and cheeks. When at last he came up for air, he sighed and laid upon his cheek, smiling up at his lover.

“See? Is much better,” Heavy teased, petting through Medic's hair.

“Much better,” Medic agreed, wrapping his arms around Heavy's leg and curling in on his side.


	2. A Rare Pair - TF2 - Demoman/Sniper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Package Goods"
> 
> Their secret discovered, Sniper reflects for a moment on how he and Demoman got together. Also Spy is a little shit.

“They know.”

Those two words nearly stopped Sniper's heart dead when Demoman spoke them, eye wide.

They know. The team knew. Their secret was out.

They'd worked so hard thus far to keep their burgeoning relationship a secret. It hadn't been going on for long. What had at first been a mutual aesthetic appreciation since the beginning of their contracts had actually turned into an attraction a few months ago. Since then, things had gotten more intense, more awkward, and more difficult to ignore, until finally it was the assassin who had broached the topic on the way back from a beer run. In a manner of speaking.

 

*

 

“Bottle-o's a waste of money,” Sniper grumbled, the receipt tucked into the pocket of his dungarees. “One stop, yeh, but there's better spots in town to get some tinnies than that shop. They upcharge you for convenience.”

“Oh, aye?” Demoman teased, leaning against the passenger-side door of Sniper's ute with a grin. He appreciated Sniper's thrifty nature, and was more than a little endeared to the rangy Australian's grouchy way of announcing it. “Ye've got the low-down on package goods in Teufort?”

“You think there's much else to do sitting around my camper but have a drink and a wank?”

“So then ye've got the low-down on pornography as well?”

“I've had my fair share of voyeuristic encounters in my daily work,” Sniper sniffed. “Before I went and ruined the moment with a well-placed bullet.”

“Bit of a mood-killer, that.” Demoman sat up, eager to learn of a good bargain. “So where d'ye suggest we buy beer next time, then?”

“Most of the bars in town do package goods. The one on Fifth's not bad but it's all American pisswater pilsner. The little one on Langston's got a good import selection, does tins and bottles, and has the lowest prices in town.”

“Langston? Isnae that the gay bar?”

Sniper gave a silent nod, letting it hang in the air. He figured there was one of two ways Demoman could take that information. He could merely think Sniper's thriftiness was paramount, or—

“Nice place, that one. Nae a meat market like a lot o' places tend tae be. Got an arrangement with them to sell 'em DeGroot rum imported from family back in Scotland.”

Or he could totally surprise Sniper.

“Like a lot of places? You been to gay bars often?”

“Hard enough to find a date as a black Scottish cyclops, let alone one who prefers blokes,” Demoman replied with a warm smile.

Sniper was almost taken aback by how brazen Demoman was about admitting something like that so plainly, but at the same time, appreciated it. It meant either Demoman was sure Sniper was understanding enough to not care, that he was hoping Sniper was the same, or most likely, that he was sure he could take Sniper in a fist fight.

He wasn't exactly wrong, there.

Drawing up his confidence, Sniper spared a look to the handsome bomber, feeling his pulse begin to race. “Might be easier to find than you think,” he offered, moving a hand from the steering wheel to the bench seat, setting his palm down on the upholstery midway between the two of them.

Warm fingers tangling with his own brought a wide smile to his face. Hot breath ghosted against his ear, and Demoman was there, leaning over, pressing his chest to the assassin's shoulder. “Pull over, love.”

The ute was barely in park before lips collided and arms encircled him, nearly ripping him out of the seatbelt's grasp.

 

*

 

“What do you mean, they know?”

“I mean when we both put in for bloody furlough tae go tae that restaurant, Spy strolled up tae me and offered tae make a reservation for us because I knows the owner and can get us the most romantic table in the house. Also that you should probably bathe beforehand, the arse.”

“We share showers!” Sniper snarled. “He has literally been standing next to me while I shower!”


	3. Family - TF2 - Zhanna/Soldier, Heavy/Medic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Down the Aisle"
> 
> Heavy walks his dear sister Zhanna down the aisle to give her away at her wedding to Soldier. He introspects about his family.

Misha never considered himself the type to cry. But in that moment, he found it very difficult to consider himself to be anything else. Not as he strode down that aisle, the crook of his arm occupied by the arm of his beautiful sister, approaching the altar where Soldier—Jane—stood, dressed better than perhaps anyone had seen him. The square-jawed man stood crisply at attention, his tuxedo tailored perfectly and fitting like he'd been born in the damn thing, at Spy's insistence. Anything less would have looked a smear on the absolute radiance of Zhanna.

She couldn't wear Mama's dress. Mama was not a small woman, but Zhanna was like Misha. She took after Papa, tall and broad. Yana would be able to fit the dress, Bronislava too. But Zhanna needed her own gown, and so that, too, had been facilitated by Spy's connections. The man was, of course, paid handsomely for his efforts, after offers of godfatherhood of Jane and Zhanna's future children were _firmly_ rejected.

None could deny the man's fashion knowledge, however. Zhanna was stunning, her broad shoulders accentuated alongside her wide hips, her figure feminine and powerful, yet celebrated with delicate beadwork and crisp, white fabric. Her hair was worn loose and long, a curtain of night about her shoulders and exposed back, and she was the picture of beautiful and terrible, a force of nature given shape and form.

Misha could not be more proud, or in awe of this wonderful woman he had watched grow from a tiny, pugnacious child with scraped knees and a sassy mouth. His oldest sister was still a baby in his mind, still younger than him, still his responsibility to care for. And here he was, giving her away. Entrusting her happiness and safety to an absolute madman.

A madman who made her happier than he'd ever seen her.

Misha took some solace in that. And the fact that he was utterly sure she could destroy Soldier in a single strike should she be bothered to. He need not fear for her wants and needs. Besides, the man looked to worship the ground this woman walked upon. As he should. She was a goddess of ice and snow, who had slain mighty bears and evil men with her bare hands.

He couldn't have been more proud. And yet, there was a gentle pang of guilt in his heart.

He was walking Zhanna to her future husband. He was here, in suit and tie, with the bride on his arm.

This was Papa's job.

Papa, who had barely gotten to see Zhanna begin to grow. Who was gone while Bronislava was still a baby.  Who had been put to death and made them to suffer for his relentless pursuit of what was Right, in spite of what was Sensible. He had put them all in danger for the sake of ideals. And for that, they lost him, and he lost the chance to have this honor. To see his oldest daughter marry. To walk her down the aisle. To be here for the happiest day of her life.

Instead he was the cause of the saddest days.

It was Papa's job, but he had given it up when he had failed to think of his family before his ideals. Misha knew the importance of stopping evil men, but he knew the importance of keeping one's family safe first.

In that, he supposed, Misha had earned this privilege. He was grateful for it, regardless.

When they arrived, Misha kissed his sister's forehead and held her hands, giving them a careful squeeze. She was still so tiny to him. Still a little girl. Still so important for him to protect and care for. Even as they parted and he took his seat beside Medic, who wrapped an arm around his and gave it a squeeze.

No matter what, she would always be his little sister.


	4. Something You Don't Ship - TF2 - Helen/Miss Pauling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tries Her Best"
> 
> Miss Pauling will do anything for Helen.

They asked her why she stayed. Why she was loyal. Why she served, faithfully, without question, for so long, through so much hardship and pain. Odds insurmountable, she persisted, never once wavering from her cause.

She doubted herself. Of course she did. She wasn't sure if she was enough. Hell, if anyone could be enough. Helen asked the world and more, but it was also what she needed.

She'd given her blood, sweat, tears, woulds, pain, and years of her life. She was prepared to give the sum of it, should Helen have need.

And Helen would never ask more than she needed.

Miss Pauling would give that to her, anyway.

When she'd first glimpsed the mysterious Administrator, Miss Pauling had been disarmed by her. A woman, older than her, imperious and powerful while still feminine. She wore makeup, did her nails, wore a suit, sure, but with a skirt. Her hair was impeccable, and immediately, Miss Pauling wondered what the chain-smoking chessmaster looked like with it pulled from its bobby pins, loose and long and flowing with the slight curl that came with having it styled up all day. She found herself having difficulty watching as those lipstick-painted lips pursed around the butt of a cigarette, at the narrowed, fierce eyes that looked down at her like she was nothing to Helen. Like the woman would have been barking orders even if no one had been there to hear it. It was a feeling of utter insignificance that sparked something in Miss Pauling that she found difficult to put into words. But it made her want to serve this woman, in any way she asked.

In _any way_.

Helen did not let anyone in close. She didn't show her hand to anyone, but Miss Pauling proved, through years of work and dedication, that she was worthy of seeing a card or two. Hints, intimations, outlines of a plan so grand, of the machinations of a woman so complex, that Miss Pauling was unsure if she even truly cared, more than she cared that it was what Helen wanted. And what Helen wanted, Miss Pauling would get her.

It was probably unhealthy. Scratch that, it was  _definitely_ unhealthy, but after a job well done, when those sharp nails scraped gently against her scalp, petting through her hair to a raspy coo of, “You've done well,” Miss Pauling found the taste of that woman's venemous tongue to be like honey. She would kneel at her feet, and between her thighs, one job finished, the next to do, blood dry on her hands and sweat in her hair as she buried her face beneath Helen's skirt and did her best. She always did her best.


	5. Friends - TF2 - Soldier & Demoman, Demoman/Sniper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Advice"
> 
> (I'm so good at keeping up with challenges, you guys)  
> Soldier and Demoman discuss the latter's love life. Soldier doesn't get the point of all this pussy-footing around.

“What is the problem?” Soldier asked, flummoxed by what he'd just heard.

Demoman sighed, rubbing at his temple. “What dae ye mean, what is the problem? I jes' told ye! I've got to bloody deal with the handsome bastard every single day! Day in, day out! I keep catchin' meself staring! He usually sits beside me at dinner, and every time his leg brushes mine it's like he may as well be bitin' me neck for how much it gets tae me! And then every time I'm in the showers after a match, he just has tae take the spot next tae me! On me good eye's side, so I cannae even just look straight ahead to avoid a peek!” The Scot heaved a heavy sigh, leaning heavily against the table of the diner booth he and Soldier shared, tucked away somewhere in the middle of the desert, where their bosses probably wouldn't find out about the two of them sharing a mountain of french toast over coffee. “He's bloody gorgeous, Jane.”

“You have strange taste in men,” Soldier chuckled, taking a swig of his black coffee.

“Ye've nae seen his arse. Like a fuzzy peach.” Demoman groped at the air. “Could eat it for hours.”

Soldier stopped mid-sip, a soft creak of noise from his nose making it clear he was trying desperately not to allow the fluid to rise into there, holding back his laugh. He struggled, and finally swallowed, then set down the mug. “So what is the problem?”

The Scot's eye met his friend's gaze, frustrated. He opened his mouth to explain again, but Soldier continued, cutting him off.

“You like your team's Sniper. You think he's gorgeous enough to peep on in the shower and want to put your tongue in his butthole. _He_ keeps sitting next to you and rubbing your leg with his. _He_ takes a spot in the shower next to you every day. _He_ makes sure it's on the side that can see. Every day, Tav.”

“Wait, ye mean—”

“I mean he's as much of a chicken as you are about saying anything about wanting to jump your bones, but at least he sends hints, you nincompoop!  He wants to toss your caber, you skirt-twirling drunk!”

Demoman chewed on that information for a long moment. It had never occurred to him that Sniper had been actively trying to get himself noticed. “Now that ye mention it, he does answer the door to his camper naked every time I come 'round.”

Soldier cuffed his friend upside the back of his head.


End file.
